


What a life you’ve lived

by bryar6



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prologue and epilogue set post-Wizards but scenes are all pre-Wizards, Scars, Vignettes, Whump, see chapters for additional tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryar6/pseuds/bryar6
Summary: “Scars remind us where we've been. They don't have to dictate where we're going.” ― David RossiDouxie has survived nearly a thousand years and been through the likes of which many could not fathom. And with these years comes hardships, trials and tribulations, and a fair number of scars.Stories of Douxie's scars and how he got them over the years. Some angsty, some funny, and others somewhere inbetween.
Relationships: Archie & Hisirdoux "Douxie" Casperan, Hisirdoux "Douxie" Casperan & Zoe
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue ~ Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> There will be descriptions of scars, wounds, sometimes the situations in which they were received and some mild blood and gore possible. Nothing will be explicitly graphic, and will add warnings to each chapter accordingly. Tags will also be updated as I go. 
> 
> This was originally presented to me in a "you would write..." ask on my blog, and so here it is (special thanks to @alovesongshewrote for this rather angsty and fun idea.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” ― Cormac McCarthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the introduction that will tie back to an epilogue at the end and neatly wrap up this fic, description of some of his old scars here and alludes to the events in which he got them.

“Scars tell stories,” an old innkeep remarked one day. The wizard was stood in front of the open fire, hanging his dripping shirt to dry. The storm outside raged and howled, but this kind chap had taken one look at the bedraggled young man on the threshold and welcomed him to stand at the hearth as long as he needed. For a price, of course; talk. “You must have a whole tome of tales to accompany them.” 

Douxie, at the time, had laughed it off. Because he did indeed have a plethora of things to speak of, adventures a-plenty. But many of them were stories he would or could not tell. And for one so physically young as himself, there were far more stories than there should have logically been. 

“Indeed I do, but those are for me to know and you to ponder, sir.” Douxie just smiled and pulled up a chair, turning his back to the fire and sipping from a mug of some watered down drink that was being offered as tea. Archie was curled protectively against his feet. Instead, he and the man talked of modern events. Plays and balls and nations rising and falling, wars and treatises and new inventions and politics and more. But the inkeep’s first words rang in his head from that moment on. 

Standing facing his reflection in the mirror now instead of a hearty fire, he thinks his past self was both foolish and brave beyond his years. If such a description isn’t completely contradictory in it’s own right. 

_Scars tell stories._ Douxie’s fingers trail over a large, faded burn scar on his shoulder, to where it wraps around to his back, from centuries past, eyes track and move to a scar under his chin that he has to tilt his head to see. Small scars on his shoulders from Archie’s claws— never intentional, just products of some situation gone terribly wrong and the familiar clinging for his life. With his back to the mirror and craning to see, his back is a map of centuries of scarring. 

The whipping scars are long ridges across his shoulders. A cut across his chest, a surface wound from a cutlass he’d narrowly missed taking to his throat. And now, in a jagged pale gash, the scar spreading along his ribs to his hip from his fall to complement the others in perpendicular intersection. The more he looks at all these scars, the more he realizes how many of them Zoe’s had a hand in healing. They’re as much a part of him as they are a connection to her, in an odd way. The late nights she’d spent patching him up, the dressings done in the dawn’s first light so they could get back on the road, standing together in rivers and washing off the day’s damage. And so they are a connection to Archie, who spent his fair share of time bandaging him during their more lonesome travels. And not only do they remind him of his closest companions, but they remind him of why he fights, like a physical mantra to fall back on. _You did what was right. Even if it cost you this._

And he knows that each of these scars tells a story of adventure, of loss and tragedy, of excitement and awe, of grandeur and the most downright terrifying things he’s ever faced. And as much as sometimes, he’s despised them— _because really, can’t a bloke catch a break at the pool or on a particularly hot day?_ —they’re a part of him, and he will deny time and time again for any healer to touch them. Not that all of them could even be healed with magic, as it is. 

And each last one of them has a story, stupid, awful, intriguing, humorous, or otherwise. Maybe one of these days, he’ll tell the tales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the stage is set, more scenes to come soon! Chapter count is just an early estimate, knowing me it could be longer. In other news, the word is out: I refuse to stop hurting the bebe please someone stop me.


	2. For those you couldn't save

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All actions have consequences, even if the actions themselves are done in benevolence and protection of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild description of a whipping, blood and wounds described/mentioned, suturing(stitching) described, alcohol mention, medieval medicine.

*******Early 1400s*******

_“You are nothing but a dirty fool. A stupid, ignorant boy who must be punished. You do not mean anything here. And you will be treated as such for your attempts to intervene.” The first lick of the whip comes down in a cry of blinding pain._

_With each bite of the leather, he remembers why he is enduring this._

_For that little girl I’d been able to do nothing but stare as she was taken, kicking and screaming from her family. For that man who I watched lose a hand after being accused of a theft he hadn’t committed. For the boy in clothes so thin I could see every known bone as he lay wasting away in a damp alley. The child whose illness I had no potion for. For everyone I never managed to save, for those who couldn’t save themselves._

Douxie attempts and fails to clear his throat. He’s parched, and the sun burning his exposed back is taking it’s sure toll. The lashings crust and stiffen with his dried blood and pull if he shifts, not that he can move very well, even if he wanted to. His wrists are raw from the course rope rubbing them. Dust from the street has made his eyes beyond irritated, and by now, he can do nothing but lay here. It’s been hours. Eventually some child will come and cut the bindings off in pity as he has observed happen to others, but until then, he waits with his chin dropped to his chest. 

“Douxie?” 

He shakes himself from his stupor at the sound of his name, turning his head slightly. His back and shoulders scream out as he does so and he rests his head back and bites the inside of his cheek, trying to find any way to make the pain lessen even a little. 

“Oh, gods no. What did they do to you?” A very familiar voice. And she’s upset. 

In the odd quiet of the town center, he hears the sound of a woven basket falling against the ground, a knife sliding from a leather sheath. He can feel the rope shifting and listens to the sawing, but can’t really bring himself to do anything about it. With the tension released, he slumps to the ground, resting his temple on the sand.

“I screwed up,” he coughs out, wheezing and hacking on his dry throat. Each breath makes his throat clench tighter.

“It sure as hell looks like you did. Don’t talk,” she says, scrambling for a canteen slung over her shoulder, uncapping it and lifting it to his lips. He attempts to sip, most of the water cascading down his chin and onto his exposed chest. He lifts a frighteningly weak hand and pushes the canteen back, and clumsily wipes his wrist across his mouth. 

Zoe _tsks_ and pulls a handkerchief out and dries his chin and face. Her hand trembles slightly. “You’re an idiot.” A pause, then softer, “I didn’t even recognize you for a moment.” 

“Ugh,” he manages, head bobbing unsteadily. He is only vaguely aware as she hails one of the villagers with an empty cart and they unceremoniously load him into the back. The pain is intense, but he bears it with more grace than he had the actual enduring of it all. He shuts his eyes firmly against the bright sun. And he is very aware of Zoe’s small hand wrapped around his wrist. 

It’s not long, or doesn’t feel it, anyways, before they arrive at the tiny dilapidated cottage they’d been staying in. It’d been previously abandoned and no one had blinked an eye when the two young adults had started inhabiting it. With help from whatever commoner it was who’d graciously let them use their cart, Douxie is put up onto the old, rotting table against one of the walls of the single room. 

“Lay down please,” she insists, pressing on his shoulder that was attempting to rise back up. He rests his weight back, drawing a hand to the back of his head and feeling a pulsing throb he doesn’t recall occurring, and an ache in his chest from where his ribs press against the wood. Vaguely, he remembers hard leather boots in his line of sight, but everything is so fuzzy with pain. Zoe hoists herself onto the tabletop beside him, a wet rag dragging across his skin making him shiver despite the heat. 

Zoe’s hands feel impossibly soft and cool against the screaming of the lashings. She gently scrubs off the dried blood and brushes away the caked sand. He focuses on the rough table top under his stomach as each of her movements send a stab of pain into him, trying to breathe steadily. 

“I cannot believe you’d get yourself into such a mess.” 

He attempts to clear his throat, and replies as firmly as his hoarse throat allows, “I had to do what was right.” 

“Sometimes you have to do what is right for _you_. I don’t have any of my healing crystals anymore and the catgut I’ve got isn’t exactly the best available. And we have to hope you won’t develop infection. You’ll have these scars for life.” Something in Zoe’s voice hints at an underlying worry, but it’s clear she won’t speak on it. 

“How many lifetimes?” 

“Every last one.” There’s an upsetting finality about the way she says that and it sends a shiver through his body.

“Oh.” 

“‘Oh,’ alright. Now put your head back down. You’re going to tear yourself open further.” He watches as she crosses to the pile of their belongings in the corner and opens a small wooden box. From that she procures a somewhat large bone needle and the aforementioned catgut. He makes a note not to let Archie know what the things used for suturing are, even if it’s a misnomer entirely. They’d never hear the end of it. 

Speaking of Archie...he must be dozing on the thatch or out on a hunt, and would likely have an earful of things to say of Douxie’s sorry state once he learns of it. All this had gone down while he was out, supposed to have been trying to track down that particularly elusive hedgewizard that had been wandering the village and passing rumors. Based on the fact that the townspeople seemed more interested in prosecuting and punishing Douxie for a little snooping about, the rogue mage is probably long since moved on. 

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?” 

“This the first time you’ve gotten sutures?” Zoe sits up on the table again, leaning over his back and gently pressing the edges of a wound together. It stings and he clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together. 

“Perhaps.” 

“Mm. Well, to answer you, the aqua vitae will hurt worse.” 

Douxie makes a disgruntled sound. “I’ll need a drink after this.” 

“ _You_ will? What about _me_? Hisirdoux ‘I got myself flogged’ Casperan. The troubles you get yourself into when I’m not there to stop you. I’ll be forced to become an alewife to get as much drink as I’ll need once I’m through with your messes.” She grumbles, muttering curses as she threads the needle and sets it down. He turns his head to properly see her, albeit somewhat past his line of sight.

“I’m sorry.” 

She sighs heavily. “I know you too well to think you’d do otherwise.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Might want to bite down on that cloth. I’m not joking when I say it’ll hurt. Can’t risk you getting an infection and it’s this or cauterizing. I’m trying not to ruin your back, though.” 

“What, you know from experience?” he asks, looking over his shoulder to Zoe. She grimaces, her shoulders falling. 

“I don’t need to answer that.” A secret of her own, seems.

“How much do you know then?” Zoe snorts. Douxie is aware it’s obviously more than he knows, but to his knowledge, she’d never been taught by anyone who did these things as a living. 

“I know enough. Please don’t scream.” 

He braces himself for it, and when the liquid pours across his back like molten metal, he can’t say he’s handling the pain as well as he’d hoped. He cries out, the sound muffled in the rag between his teeth and tears welling in his eyes. It might have been fire for all he knew. 

“It should fade in a minute,” she says, voice a bit softer than usual, less of her typical bite. “If I had the herbs for the pain, I’d give them to you, but I don’t and of course nothing is growing yet. We’re doing this the way mortals do. Once it dries a little, then I’ll start with the sutures.” 

He tugs the cloth from his mouth, sucking in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” 

“Just...be quiet.” The first pass of the needle is uncomfortable, but he can hardly even tell what she’s doing. He doesn’t really know if that’s a good or bad thing. She settles into a rhythm and he does his best to think of anything else besides what his skin must look like. 

Zoe begins to hum as she works, a low and soothing sound. He closes his eyes and lets it comfort him, noting that it’s a tune with some familiarity. The notes rise and fall softly but it doesn’t sound like something one would hear played on the strings. 

“What are you singing?” 

“I thought I told you to be quiet.” She resumes the hum for a moment, her hands pausing over his back. She goes much quieter now, almost hard to catch what she’s saying. “It’s this old lullaby my mother taught me to sing to my siblings.” 

“I like it.” 

“Quiet.” Her hands return to threading the needle delicately through the torn skin, but he can’t feel it besides the passing of her fingers with each cross of the suture. After a couple quiet moments, she begins to sing, the words rolling off her tongue smoothly. “Lullay, lullay, la...lullay…” 

The lullaby is broken by intermittent hums instead of the words, the movement of her hands matching the time of the song. Douxie says nothing, listening and wondering to himself just what memories she might be thinking of. Though he can’t see her face, he guesses there must be a smile accompanying the song if he knows her tone that well. Whatever memories it triggers for him are so buried underneath other things he doesn’t want to remember, so he avoids it, doing his best to create a new moment to associate it with. 

“‘Sweete sune,’ seyde sche, ‘Weroffe suld I singe?’” She hums on, and pauses. For a moment, her hand draws away from the wounds, a finger trailing against an old scar along his ribs. He shivers slightly, not daring to crane his head to meet her eyes. Just about as soon as he has noticed her distraction, she’s already returned to the task at hand. 

“By-by, lullay, la…” She trails off and he misses the sound of her soft voice as soon as it’s gone. The crickets buzzing in the fields and the grinding of carts in the street is all there is to be heard and to him it feels like some sweet melody has been removed from his little world. He only hopes to hear it again, though there’s no way he’ll press her for it. 

Zoe sets the needle and catgut down, breathing a sigh of relief. She wipes at her face, leaving a distinct smear of what he can only assume is his blood on her cheek. Douxie shifts and her hand comes down instantly on his arm. 

“I’m not done until I say I’m done, so stay put,” she hisses, moving away from the table and grabbing a jar and ladle. She sets it beside him, and on opening it, he immediately recognizes the sweet scent. 

“Is that—” 

“Stop moving! For god’s sakes, Douxie. Yes, it’s honey. No, I’m not giving you any to eat, this is going on your back. Wasn’t cheap, and it was supposed to be for that nasty scratch Archie got. Hopefully will help with the healing process on the both of you. Supposed to, anyways, if I have enough left for him after dealing with your mess.” She slaps his reaching hand away, scowling. 

Douxie refrains from shifting in discomfort under the feeling of the thick liquid on his skin. Zoe works it into the gashes, gentle but firm. He grimaces as the pressure triggers a different sort of unease. 

“Even as far as floggings go, this is awful. It’s only supposed to be until bloody, not...well, this,” she says, sounding more than just a little bit irritated. A bite in her tone that only means trouble. “This can’t have even been legal. Do you remember who in particular did this?” 

Douxie thinks hard for a moment. “Possibly. Two nobles. There aren’t all that many around here.” 

“Hmm.” She draws away and snatches up a shallow pail and a clean rag, dragging a stool up to the end of the table and faces him. “Lift your head for me.” 

He does as he’s told and she takes his chin in a hand, tipping his face and washing off caked dirt, and from the staining on the cloth, more dried blood. Her features are scrunched up in concentration as she does so, a slight grimace hidden there as well. 

He blinks a few times, noticing just how heavy his eyelids are beginning to weigh, how really exhausted and foggy-minded from the lingering pain he feels. Zoe’s burning blue eyes are still fixed on his face, rewetting the cloth with the bowl at her feet and running it over his cheek. 

“You’re very kind to me,” he mumbles, some newfound comfort and elation finding him in this odd sensation before his mind can turn over to restfulness. And he’s full of all these things he wants to say, no, he has to say. That he is determined to let her know. 

She makes a rather disgruntled sound. “I know I am. Probably too kind.” Her grip on his face tightens and he winces. “Would you quit moving?” 

“Course, love.” He settles his head down and resolves to follow these instructions. His eyes distractedly track to her face again, observing the change of expression and emotion. Zoe’s nostrils flare and her brows sink. 

“Don’t call me that.” She stands abruptly, stool scooting out behind her. “Now you stay put there for a bit. Don’t. Move.” 

“Mhm. As you wish,” he slurs, the words leaning into each other as they come off his tongue in a rather amusing fashion. He thinks he might have even chuckled aloud at it. The last thing he sees is her eyes rolling dramatically high, and then turning and ducking through the front door of the little cottage. 

Some funny thought tickles him that perhaps he should rest, Zoe seemed to know what she was talking about. He’s out before he knows it, head tipped against his arm and the pains across his back fading into the background. 

****************

Zoe returns not long after with milk and a very few herbs she’d bartered with a neighbor for, seeing as they owned no cows of their own and needed to move on relatively soon. Douxie lies asleep on the table and she frowns, knowing that he needs to be moved before he gets hurt further. 

“Douxie,” she whispers, lifting his hand and squeezing slightly. There’s no response, not even a twitch on his face. She pulls on his hand just a little, and still nothing. 

Zoe notices an unusual redness to his complexion, and lifts a hand to his forehead. He’s warm, but it shouldn’t be that concerning...yet. She grabs the wet washcloth and presses it against his forehead. “You need to get up.” 

With some considerable difficulty, he struggles awake, and flinches at her touch on his arm. She draws away, afraid of paining him further. 

“Hello?” he mumbles, eyes closing again. 

“Get up, going to shift you to the blankets down here, after some bandages,” she says quietly, pointing to the pile of hides and blankets they’d been sleeping in the past few nights. It kept them warm, and that’s all that mattered. 

“Oh.” With assistance from her hands stabilizing his arms, he sits up, face twisting in apparent agony. He says nothing though, remaining stoic as he can be, in such pain. Tenderly, he slips from the table and stumbles into her. 

“Easy,” she warns, surprising herself in being able to hold up his weight. 

“Sorry,” he says, raising a hand to gingerly touch his back, failing to disguise it from her. She swats it away and he earns a disappointed look. 

“Just lean on the table, got to wrap these now that everything’s dry.” She lifts some scraps of cloth and begins to wind it under his arms. He can barely lift them, but it’s just enough for her to finish her work. He shivers as her strangely chilled hands brush over his skin. She knots the bandages and steps back to give it a cursory glance. It’s as good as they’re going to get right now. 

“Down?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. She nods, and lets him use her to stabilize and keep from tipping over, and together they sink to the soft pile. She helps him adjust on his stomach and draws a blanket over his back carefully, so as not to rub any of the bandages wrong or catch on them. 

He closes his eyes again, the muscles in his jaw clearly tensing in some sort of hurt despite her diligence. She fights back a curse. 

Zoe lies down beside him, taking his thick cloak she’d briefly borrowed this afternoon, and wrapping herself in it. Zoe keeps her eyes trained on his face, watching for any signs of new discomfort, but if she’ll actually get anything from it will remain to be seen. He keeps very still, though his breathing doesn’t fall into a sleep pattern yet. 

She shuffles closer to him, shoulder touching his arm. “Why do you have to do this,” she whispers, her hand reaching out and pausing. Something in her says desperately that she needs to comfort him, and yet, he looks so hurt, that any touch would cause him to recoil. 

“I have to,” he replies in kind, head shaking ever so slightly. His brow furrows and his eyes press shut harder. “For everyone who I couldn’t save, and for those who can’t stand up for themselves.” 

She knew this answer already. She was asking it out of habit. It was rhetorical, really, though she was hoping for a reply. Just to know that he is here, and that he’s listening, and that he will be okay. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. Tears slip down his face, and her hand finally reaches out to him, gently cradling the side of his head. He leans into her touch, the faintest smile crossing his lips. 

“It’s alright. You just rest,” she insists, hand falling again. He sighs, but buries his face further into the crook of his arm. 

“I will.” 

She can’t bring herself to sleep, out of some strange fear that maybe the people who did this to him might reappear to finish the job, so she stays with a watchful eye on the doorway. But the only one who crosses the threshold is a small, black cat with a rabbit in his jaw. Zoe tearfully explains to Archie what had happened while he was gone and they both keep a silent vigil for the night. 

It’s a long time before any of them can talk easily about this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I must hurt him so, lol. Clearly not a ton of comforting stuff in this chapter but there will be later on, though I warn you I will not pull any punches with this work. I wanted this one to be more of a harsh reality and to break into the dynamic some more, these stories will have a decent involvement on Zoe's part. There will be more to come on what Zoe did the following day, however. She didn't ask who did it for no reason...
> 
> Also that’s a real medieval lullaby! Usually “Lullay Lullay la Lullay” is the title you’d find it under. Also sometimes more associated with the holidays and carols.


End file.
